


I am Healthy, I am Whole, but I Have Poor Impulse Control

by DaisyWind



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Flashbacks, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Lack of coping skills: the fanfic, M/M, PTSD, Panic Attacks, Slow Burn, There will be content warnings at the beginning of each chapter, There's a...lot in this fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-24
Updated: 2019-09-23
Packaged: 2020-10-26 15:47:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20744705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaisyWind/pseuds/DaisyWind
Summary: That is how it happened, how the greatest enigma of his very much enigma-filled life, returned. It’s how three months into returning to Tokyo, he was currently sitting on this lumpy couch next to his once attempted murderer. Although, to be fair, Akira had had a lot of people try to kill him in his short life, so the title didn’t hold that much weight.Akira is desperately seeking normalcy, and Akechi is just plain desperate.Or: two boys have severe trauma and have no idea how to handle it, the fanfic.





	I am Healthy, I am Whole, but I Have Poor Impulse Control

**Author's Note:**

> Alright folks, this is fic is going to bring up a lot. So there will be CW in the beginning of each chapter.  
For this chapter, **CW for: self-harm, panic attacks, vomit, pills, and mentions of suicide**

This was supposed to be the easy part. It was supposed to be calm, like the spring skies after a harsh winter, it was supposed to allow the sun to break through and thaw all discontentment. Allow the warmth to bring forth flowers and some sort of peace. Let life continue, and have all of their problems dissolve like a false god. For the most part, they _ did.  _ Over the last year whispers of the Phantom Thieves quieted, partially due to Mishima’s documentary being “on indefinite hiatus” after the sudden disappearance of his footage, which largely consisted of close-up shots of certain members’ chests and voice-overs describing himself as “The Phantom Thieves Informer”. Futaba denied any and all involvement, stating “It’s his own fault for not backing up his files, the creep.” 

Time, though,  _ time  _ was the reason for their evaporation from people’s minds. It wasn’t the work of a distorted public consciousness, or some faceless organization deadset on silencing vigilante justice. Phantom Thieves were treated like a short-lived childrens show, brought up only in nostalgic conversations that served no purpose other than to, for a moment, bring a semblance of connection with those involved. Ryuji had sent a group text the other day; it was a picture of the Phantom Thieves logo that had text underneath it that read “Remember when everyone lost their minds for these people?” Akira had found the post later that night, and read some of the responses: “what a throwback omg”, “damn i feel old”, “lmao god what a weird year that was”. It was a strange feeling, knowing how disconnected the public was with them now. When it seemed like not long ago it was as if he could feel the pulse of the public under his veins when he felt their fate rest on his young shoulders. Now, it was all but a memory. Even the Phantom Thieves themselves, long disbanded after publically retiring, found themselves talking less and less about their times in the metaverse. 

Their group text no longer consisted of plans for infiltration, but plans for lunch. There was less talk about societal change and more funny cat photos. It was what he imagined other teenagers’ group chats looked like: inside jokes mixed with light insults. It felt hollow though, and he hated that he knew the others felt the same way, even if none of them spoke about it. But, then again, how do you talk about it?

After defeating a bona fide god (which Akira still only half-believed, if it wasn’t for the raised, too-white scars on his chest from the battle itself, he would have chalked it up to a fever dream of some sorts) and moving back to his hometown, everyone just... drifted apart. Over the course of that year, the group chat became less and less active, and it was clear that without the  _ literal world on the line _ , there was not much else to say. They were all incredibly different people, and rebellion and trauma bonding can only hold a group together for so long. Sure, every holiday he would come to the city for a few days and everyone would gather together and throw a party. Everyone would talk to each other, but it was clear their group was split into groups themselves. Ann, Ryuji, and Yusuke (moreso Ryuji and Yusuke than Ann and Yusuke, he noted to himself), and then Makoto and Haru. Futaba floated around, spending as much time with each of them as she could, which unsurprisingly wasn’t often, considering the high school she was accepted into was rather academically demanding, not that that mattered of course. Futaba was ridiculously smart and could finish all of the work for the week in a matter of hours. Rather, school cut into her sleep and computer schedule, and as she said herself, “Socializing comes after all the important stuff.” So, the split was still there, however implicit, and lack of crime-fighting was to blame. At least, that’s what Akira thought. 

Then he moved back. It was then that the group text started picking up again, more group parties, and more talking. The rift, it seemed, all but vanished the day he stepped back on Tokyo soil. Yusuke and Haru would join him out shopping for groceries for Leblanc; Ann and Makoto would drag him into countless stores trying to shove him in clothes that were “ _ anything _ but black, come  _ on _ Akira!” Group dinners became a weekly occurrence: everyone coming together, canceling whatever plans they had for that evening, and coming to Leblanc. It was, well, it was  _ nice.  _ They talked openly, giving any mundane updates they had about their lives, and it felt like they were truly back together again. One night, Ann brought it up, saying “Akira, even after the Phantom Thieves, you are still our leader somehow. You bring us all together.” She was being flippant, and after she said that Morgana howled in protest, stating that he was the true leader. The banter escalated quickly as Akira felt himself leave the room for a moment, his thoughts in a different world entirely.  _ That was it, it was me. I am the reason everyone grew apart. Does that mean...?  _ Ryuji slapping him on the back brought him back to the present before he could finish his thoughts. He was grateful, because the idea that he alone could bolster their entire group dynamic was, well, overwhelming to say the least. He decided to isolate that idea into a dark crevice of his brain; he was back and that is what mattered. 

  
  


Of course, as luck or whatever the fuck would have it, the idea of half a dozen people he loved all relying on him for their own social needs seemed to be the least of his problems. Akira faced his greatest source of misgivings when he returned, Goro Akechi. The boy currently sitting next to him on his small couch in a musty attic. The boy who had died, been resurrected, destroyed a god that had destroyed him, and gone to jail only to return with a plastic smile and a reduced sentence. He had been released two months before Akira had been set to return to Leblanc. He had not heard from him at all, not that he had really expected to. Akira had written him a few times while he was in jail, only to receive absolutely nothing in return. Though, could he blame him? In one of the letters that he sent he wrote half a page on the weather, the goddamn  _ weather.  _ As someone who had been shoved in juvie before, he knew that hearing about the weather when you are inside surrounded by bright fluorescent lights all day, is enough to drive you off a ledge. Having half a page about it given to you by your former rival/friend/whatever they were?  _ Ugh.  _ But, how can you say ‘thank you for everything, and thank you for being alive and not dead in an ocean in the metaverse’ in a letter? How could he have even put what he felt into actual sentences on a page? Everything in his brain felt jumbled, and the thought of writing anything remotely objective, anything that wasn’t a concrete fact, felt absurd. So sure, the few letters he wrote were superficial. Akira told himself it was because he didn’t know if the letters would be intercepted and so he should keep things light. He was lying to himself. 

So imagine his surprise the morning he climbed down the stairs after a rather uproarious welcome home surprise party (though, who was surprised? He expected it the second he gave them all his return date _ )  _ and saw none other than the disgraced former ace detective sitting at his spot at the counter, sipping delicately on a cup of coffee. His hair was slightly longer, but his profile remained the same - sharp nose that dipped into soft lips with a defined chin. Akira’s legs filled with concrete and his mouth with cotton. He wanted, no,  _ needed  _ to go back upstairs, to...to _ ... what? Think? _ There is no amount of time on Earth he could spend thinking that would solve the issue that was, quite literally, sitting in front of him. Still, a moment or two to make himself look less like a gaping fish would have been nice at least. 

He quickly turned on his heel and lifted his leg to quietly creep back up the stairs when he heard someone clearing their voice.  _ Fuck.  _ He turned back on his heel, completing a slow-motion pirouette of sorts. Akechi had turned to face him, legs crossed with a gloved hand holding his cup in his left hand. When Akira looked up, he was met with a bemused expression, and a single arched eyebrow. Akechi’s face had changed, rougher somehow. It unnerved him, and he didn’t know why. He stood there for a moment, not knowing exactly what he was supposed to do. Should he go over there and shake his hand? Take a lesson from Ryuji and slap him on the back and welcome him to Leblanc with a myriad of profanities? Continue standing there like a complete idiot? 

Apparently he chose the latter, considering he was met with another cough and a raised eyebrow that made his cheeks burn. Akira found himself exhaling hard, before saying “Hey.” Whether or not his voice remained steady was not important, what was important was that he was able to speak a single syllable to the man he had thought he would genuinely never see again. 

  
  


“Hello yourself,” Akechi responded, putting his coffee cup down on the counter. He looked expectantly at Akira. What was he supposed to do here? He fidgeted with his glasses and tried to dig inside of his body for the ancient relic that was his Joker persona. Suave.  _ Coolness.  _

“What’s up?” He responded, immediately regretting the words when they fell out of his mouth.  _ What’s up? You see a guy for the first time in a year, after saving the world, and you just ask him how’s it going?  _ He looked up at the stairs, hoping by the grace of whatever that Morgana would come trotting downstairs demanding breakfast. A few seconds went by, and he glared at the entrance to the attic, willing for a distraction of any kind. Silence. Lazy traitor. 

“What’s up, you asked?” Akechi chuckled, and it hit Akira’s brain differently. That was a genuine laugh, more of a ‘what a stupid question to ask me, you idiot’ laugh, but a real laugh nonetheless. “Just enjoying a cup of coffee. I sure have missed the place.” There was a sardonic tone to his voice, there was clearly some negative judgements being implied, but Akira pushed that aside. His tone was nothing like that of the pre-shitstorm Akechi. He was being authentic, well, as authentic as someone could be after speaking two sentences. Akira blinked. 

“Me too,” he replied dumbly. Akechi sighed, as he picked up his cup of coffee again and took a sip. His lips pursed as he placed the drink back down on the counter, clearly disgusted. 

“Tastes like battery acid.” Akechi brightly stated. “If I didn’t know any better, I would assume he was trying to get rid of me.” He paused and looked around the cafe. “Which is a shame, considering I seem to be the only paying customer this shop has ever had.” 

Akira walked over to the counter, appreciative of the redirection. Coffee was always a good way to start, or at least that is what Sojiro hammered into his skull for the entirety of his previous tenancy. Whether that was true or subtle indoctrination, it was an excuse to shift away from a pair of red eyes boring into him. Akira picked up the cup, and gave it a generous sniff, ignoring the judgemental look on Akechi’s face, and instantly he felt transported back to nights he was forced to work behind the bar and he would listen to Akechi ramble on about absolutely nothing for hours. He had been unimaginably annoying. Akira’s mind would be racing a mile a minute, trying to figure out how he should balance his life for the next week without dying, and Akechi would be talking about  Nietzschian philosophy. Which, by the way, he would always misquote. One time he called him out on it too, and it just caused Akechi to talk  _ more,  _ assuming somehow that the correction was Akira showing distinct interest in whatever pseudo-intelligent bullshit he was spouting. Ah,  who knew that child labor exploitation in the form of forced barista-ing could bring such nostalgia? 

Akira looked up at Akechi, who now had a curious look on his face. “French roast.” 

“Excuse me?” Akechi responded, taking his cup back and staring into it, as if it would start talking to him. Akira rolled his eyes. 

“French roast. It’s why it’s so bitter. You like the lighter roasts, and this is as dark as it gets.” Akira turned around, and grabbed a bag of a Guatemalan blend and started pressing. Akechi scowled at his coffee before responding. 

Akechi placed his chin on his hands, staring once again. “You go from forgetting how to speak, to suddenly remembering what my coffee order was. Truly fascinating.” Akira huffed at the sarcasm, slowly pouring a new cup for this customer that despite his claims earlier, certainly was not paying. 

“Who said I forgot?” Akira slid the cup across the counter, producing another raised eyebrow from Akechi. 

“Ever the gentleman,” Akechi said, raising his cup and taking a sip before immediately spitting it out and producing a sharp hiss. Akira didn’t look up from the machine that was in front of him.

“Oh yeah, it’s hot.” 

* * *

  
  


That is how it happened, how the greatest enigma of his very much enigma-filled life, returned. It’s how three months into returning to Tokyo, he was currently sitting on this lumpy couch next to his once attempted murderer. Although, to be fair, Akira had had a lot of people try to kill him in his short life, so the title didn’t hold much weight. 

Akechi had come by this evening, as he had nearly every night since Akira returned, and what started as their usual routine, ended with them watching a movie on a thirty-year old television. Their routine was that every other night he would come home to see Akechi sitting at his barstool, drinking his coffee and reading his novel - usually something pretentious. For someone that never paid, he loved to claim everything he touched as his. He would shoot dirty looks at other customers who  _ dared  _ to sit next to him at the counter, he would hoard the sugar bowl and napkin dispenser so they were always within finger reach. He had created a nest of used coffee stirrers and half-read books around him, marking his property. 

Tonight however, while talking about everything but the last year of their respective lives, Akira made a reference to a horror film he recently saw with Haru. Tonight was also apparently the night that Akira learned that Akechi was an immense horror fan, because his face lit up and he began asking a throng of questions at rapid speed. Halfway through him asking who the director was and what the central theme was, Akira raised his hand for him to stop. Akechi blinked, and seemingly realized that he was behaving in a rather overzealous fashion. He cleared his throat and adjusted his collar, seemingly attempting to regain his composure.

_ He must really like shitty horror films, huh?  _ Akira thought before answering the few questions he remembered being blasted with, noting how wide Akechi’s eyes were. Half-way through answering a question about the recurring motif was when Akira felt the words fall from his mouth. 

“I have the movie you know, we can just watch it now if you want.” It felt like a lie, despite the sentence being absolutely true. He did have the movie, and they could go upstairs and watch it. Sojiro had long left the cafe, and there was nothing technically stopping them from sitting together and enjoying this B-rate slasher flick together. It felt like a lie because, well, why would Akechi want to watch it with him? Why would he even mention it? His feelings towards Akechi were certainly... mixed. There was a part of him, a ridiculous and masochistic part but still a part, that wanted Akechi to say yes. For them to go upstairs, sit next to each other in silence. Maybe Akechi would jump, and lean in closer to him, and he could feel his weight pressing against him, maybe he could even be close enough to smell his hair, he had always wondered -- _ Okay stop, you’re being a freak. Who thinks like this? What normal person goes from talking about a horror movie to dreaming about what a person’s hair smells like? _

Akira forced himself to think of the other part of him, the part that, I don’t know _ , wanted him to survive and have a normal life?  _ That part was currently beating the inside of his skull with a baseball bat, screaming “idiot, idiot, idiot” over and over again. He winced. 

“Hm?” Akechi hummed, forcing Akira back into the present moment, albeit with a slight headache. 

“Ah, sorry, I know you’re busy and everything I just--” 

Akechi cleared his throat, “I said sure. Did you manage to go deaf for thirty seconds just to annoy me?” Akira blinked. 

“Oh! Yeah, no, uh, lot on my mind I guess?” There was also a part of him that he identified as Joker, currently cringing in the back of his mind, like he was watching a car crash in slow motion.

“If it’s a bother--” Akechi began, sounding unsure, his dickish persona wavering. Akira felt his heart drop, and quickly interrupted.

“No! No, no. No. No, it’s not at all. No. Of course, no. Not a problem. I just didn’t know if you wanted to, no it’s fine.” Did he have a stroke? It felt like he had a stroke. He would have to check later if he could raise both arms anymore. 

Akechi raised his eyebrow, and  _ smirked.  _ The bastard. “Lead the way, then.” 

Akira focused on not tripping up the stairs. 

* * *

_ _

Now they were sitting together, Akira lazily spread out, half-paying attention to the film he had already seen. He was responding to the group text (none of whom he had mentioned he had reconnected with Akechi after bribing Morgana with sushi to keep his mouth shut) with a picture of Morgana who was cowering under his desk - despite protests that he just  _ liked  _ it under there and the movie was just  _ stupid, Akira.  _ So stupid in fact that everytime the sound of a scream occurred he would jump so high he would bump his head on the wood. 

Akechi was facing forward, eyes mesmerized by whatever scene was playing in grainy resolution on the screen. His shoulders were hunched; he looked like a rubber band about to snap. He was so entranced that Akira was able to steal moments to just look at him, to observe, as if studying Akechi under his gaze would be enough to figure him out. He half expected Akechi to turn and say a smartass comment, causing him to blush or something equally embarrassing, and cause him to overthink for the rest of the movie. However, Akechi must have been totally fixated on this movie, because his eyes never moved. 

It was a pretty bad movie, if Akira had to be honest. Watching Akechi react to it was much more fun. Even if the glint in his eye was a bit too intense, a bit too Loki-like at times. He found himself tuning out the sound completely, and switching between texting the group, and stealing prolonged looks at the disgraced detective next to him. 

He was responding to Futaba’s text about some anime that she made them watch--they all blended together at this point if he was being honest--when he heard a cough next to him. He turned, expecting Akechi to be staring at him, pissed that he is texting. Instead, he saw Akechi with his head down, with a plastic bag next to his mouth. What was he--?

“Oh shit, uh, are you okay?” Akira asked, jumping away from Akechi, who was currently vomiting into a crumpled plastic shopping bag.  _ Where did that even come from? _

Akechi didn’t answer, obviously. Akira swiveled on his heel, fumbling for the light. Morgana ran under his feet, sprinting down the stairs. Apparently Morgana’s the squeamish type, who knew?

With the light on and the movie still playing, Akechi retched a few more times before exhaling sharply, and raising his head back up. He wiped his mouth with his glove, before hastily standing. Akira immediately walked over, his hands hovering inches away from Akechi, as if he was going to fall any second. 

“I apologize,” Akechi’s voice sounded hollow. It caused Akira’s stomach to twist. “I’ll be going now, I didn’t mean to ruin our time.” He started to walk, but Akira blocked him. He was clearly sick, and there was absolutely no way he was going to let him walk to the train station alone in his condition. 

“Please, I need--” Akechi’s face was void of all color, and his skin glistened from sweat. He tried to push through Akira, but stumbled and fell, letting his knees support him on the ground. He had tied the plastic bag in a knot, and dropped it on the floor next to him. 

“Hey, don’t. It’s okay.” Akira said as he leaned down, and placed his hands on Akechi’s shoulders. Wrong move, because Akechi reacted immediately, shoving Akira away and snarling.

“Don’t you fucking touch me!” He screamed, getting to his feet in an instant. He scrambled to get as far away from Akira as he possibly could, shoving himself against a wall, his eyes huge. He looked like he was going to rip Akira’s throat out with his teeth. His breathing was labored, his entire upper body moving with each inhale. 

“Woah, uh, I am sorry, I didn’t-” Akira began, before Akechi dropped down again, pulling at his hair. His breathing was coming quick, desperate. The only sounds were from the TV, and the heavy breathing coming from the boy on the floor. Akira had no idea what was happening, and felt frozen in place. 

“Don’t fucking touch me, don’t fucking touch me.” Akechi shouted again, gasping in between each syllable. He was rocking slightly, still pulling at his scalp. 

“I’m not, I’m not going to touch you,” Akira said, trying to sound calm, “I am right here. I’m not going to. Okay?” Akechi didn’t look up, he just kept rocking and screaming. 

Akechi pulled off one of his gloves and bit his palm, hard. Akira yelped, rushing towards him. 

“What are you fucking doing?” Akira asked, absolutely horrified, “Stop _ \--Akechi, stop.  _ You’re going to hurt yourself--”

Akechi turned, his eyes wild, his hair tangled, and looked at Akira and began to  _ laugh.  _ He was still rocking slightly, but his harsh breathing turned to this high-pitched, frantic laugh. Akira felt his blood cool, this scene before him felt much too like a scene he had seen before, trapped in a boiler room on a ship that never existed, from a reality they erased. He felt nauseated. 

Akechi stopped for a moment, his heavy breathing returned, and said in a small voice, “Please, hit me.” Akira blinked, before sputtering. Akechi continued, “Unless you have a fucking pill that will put me to sleep right now. I want you to fucking hit me so hard that it will knock me out.” Akechi had beads of sweat dripping down his neck, and his hands were raw from bite marks. 

“What? No, I’m not--” Akira started, staring at Akechi, whose face was absolutely unreadable. He looked feral, hair draped over his face, breathing labored. 

Akechi shrugged, Fine. I’ll do it myself then.” Akechi stood, and faced the wall, and leaned back and--Akira ran in front of him before his head was able to make contact. Akira was careful to ensure none of his body was touching Akechi, but was close enough that he knew that Akechi couldn’t bash his head against  _ the fucking wall _ like he apparently wanted. 

“I’ll get you medicine, a pill,  _ something _ . Don’t hurt yourself, what do you need?” Akira felt as desperate as Akechi looked. He would give him anything right now to get him to just  _ stop.  _

“I already said, I need something that will knock me out. I can’t--I need--” He began hyperventilating, and his words became jumbled. Akira nodded, and he knew he looked like one of those bobblehead figurines that Futaba hoarded, but he didn’t care. He wanted to show Akechi that  _ yes  _ he will find something and it will be okay. 

Akira’s mind raced, thinking if the shop down the street was still open or not. He couldn’t leave Akechi here by himself, but he doubted he would let him take him outside. Maybe Takemi was still in her office? It was late-- _ wait _ , no, he just remembered. Akira sprinted across the room to his desk, ripping a drawer open. It was scattered with near empty pill bottles with near illegible writing in sharpie on them. He searched for a moment before he found a bottle with “sleep” scribbled on the top. He popped open the top, and turned back to Akechi, who had returned to rocking on his knees, but his eyes were shut tightly and he was murmuring to himself.

“Here,” Akira said, walking towards Akechi, “Takemi, she’s the doctor here, she supplied all the medicine we used before,” Akira paused, wondering if mentioning their time in Mementos would trigger a strong reaction in Akechi. He couldn’t tell, so he continued, “These are sleep pills that caused shadows to immediately fall asleep. I never took them, so I don’t know, probably a half of th--” Akechi grabbed the bottle from Akira’s hand, tilted the container against his mouth and shook out at least four pills that he swallowed in one swift movement. 

“What the fuck?” Akira cried, “Do you want to fucking die? Because that’s how you die, I just said that those were potent and used on  _ shadows,  _ why would you--” Akira stopped, because Akechi slumped over against the wall, his neck bent against his shoulder, and closed his eyes. 

Akira raced over,  _ fuck fuck fuck don’t be dead don’t be dead don’t be dead.  _ He watched as Akechi’s chest rose and fell, over and over. Gods, okay. He walked back, not sure what to do. Akechi said not to touch him, but he would definitely have a pulled muscle in the morning if he stayed like that. Akira turned, and grabbed a pillow from his bed, and silently thanked Haru for forcing him to go shopping at a homegoods store, because having a shitton of blankets and pillows was really convenient for times like these, whatever this even was. He slowly slipped the pillow under Akechi’s jaw, so that his neck wouldn’t be as bent, allowing him to sleep against the pillow rather than his shoulder. He grabbed another pillow and tried to place it behind Akechi’s head, trying not to touch him in the process. He grabbed a blanket with one hand, and used his fabric covered hand to gently lift his head from the wall-- _ that didn’t count as touching right? If there was a blanket between his hand and Akechi’s head? Right? _ \--and place the second pillow there. Akira laid the blanket over Akechi’s shoulder. He was still sitting upright, but hopefully it would minimize the pain he would feel in the morning. If he survived until the morning, that was. Akira sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. Why the hell did he do that? Was he _ trying  _ to kill himself? His mind flashed to Akechi, delirious and choking on his words, begging Akira to hit him. He shuddered. Maybe he was. 

Akira tried to shake the thought off by picking up the puke bag, and going downstairs to dispose of it. While washing his hands, he spotted Morgana, asleep on one of the booths. _ At least he didn’t see it _ , he thought to himself. He poured two glasses of water, and went back upstairs. He placed a glass next to Akechi, and began taking small sips of the other. He sat back on the couch, and turned off the TV, the movie had long since ended and was just blaring static at this point. He turned, so he had a direct sightline to the boy. He stared, making sure that his breathing remained even. He monitored him until he felt himself drift off to sleep. 

**Author's Note:**

> Whew okay! This was my first time writing a fic in YEARS so. hopefully i did okay???
> 
> I should be updating on a semi-regular basis, as I already have chunks of this fic already written.  
Feel free to follow me on Twitter, where I post Persona memes on the daily (@SadMoreLikeRad)  
and on Tumblr at JammesPotter


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